Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  She did do the parakeet in. He might have had a chance if Jake hadn’t hung his cage next to the window. Although Jake wasn’t a bird expert, he felt irresponsible in not spelling out to Truvy that Maynard had to keep quite warm.

  “I’m guilty! It was me. I’m the horrible mother.”

  Jake gripped her shoulder. “Tru, look at me.”

  She slowly faced him.

  “You didn’t do it on purpose. It’d be one thing if you did. Hell, I knew a kid back in Brooklyn when I was growing up who used to set cats’ tails on fire with turpentine.” He put pressure on her muscles as emphasis. “The little shit knew it was wrong and didn’t care. You cared about Maynard. This was an accident.”

  “I loved Maynard.”

  “Yeah . . . okay. You loved him. That’s good.”

  “Just like I love—” She hiccuped and cut off the thought. “I want to come with you when you bury him. We have to pick out a nice spot. I don’t want a cat to dig Maynard up. Not even Edwina’s cat—and I like Honey Tiger.”

  “We can do that—find Maynard a nice resting spot.”

  Truvy moved to stand up but wouldn’t hand over the bird. “We have to do it now.”

  Outside, it was dark as pitch without a moon to give off vague light. To wander around the outskirts of town at night would be like searching on fog-covered banks for the perfect place to fish—a person could only see what was in front of him unless he moved on. And Jake had never been one to fish, because he didn’t have the patience.

  “Tomorrow we could do a better job for him,Tru—”

  Stubbornly, she replied, “Then I’ll do it by myself.”

  Grinding his teeth, Jake helped her to her feet. “All right, sweetheart, we’ll do it right now. I’ll get a shovel and lantern from the livery.”

  Chapter

  17

  T hey buried Maynard in the woods by Evergreen Creek, beneath a blue spruce with a pretty flouring of snow on its needles. Truvy had asked Jake to dig the hole two feet deep, and he had, without complaint. No cats would be able to get her little Maynard. Once the frozen earth was poured over his tiny box, Truvy had cried a final good-bye to her pet, and she and Jake had walked back home.

  With a detour to the Blue Flame Saloon.

  Truvy waited outside while Jake disappeared inside. If she could have, she would have gone in with him. But a lady should never feel compelled to sample the forbidden drink; unfortunately, Truvy apparently wasn’t a lady. She did wonder what alcohol tasted like, as she had wondered about the taste of that cigar. And about the looks of the “fearfully and wonderfully made male anatomy” described in The Science of Life.

  After a short moment, Jake came out of the saloon and they continued back to her apartment. The lantern light waved over the side steps leading up from the livery. She didn’t know what time it was. But she dreaded going into the small room. It was an awful mess and everything reminded her that she’d failed poor Maynard.

  Jake hung the lantern on a peg, turned down the flame, and opened the door for her. She stepped inside but didn’t move further than the threshold.

  “Tru.” Jake’s hand laid softly on her shoulder. “Wash your face, put your nightgown on, and crawl into bed. I’ll clean up.”

  The very last thing he said barely registered. Put your nightgown on. Her thoughts converged on undressing in the same room as Jake. “But I . . .”

  “You wash up and I’ll take care of something else.”

  Without another word, he went to Maynard’s cage and unhooked it from the wall. After gathering the birdseed and items that had been the parakeet’s, Jake stored the things in the cage while Truvy sat on the bed and loosened the laces on her high-heeled black shoes. As she slipped them off, Jake cleaned the birdseed hulls from the table, then wiped off the surface.

  Truvy rose and went to the washbasin; the pitcher wasn’t there. It was by the heater where she’d left it after dumping the water on the biscuit fire.

  “I’ll get more water,” Jake said. “And I’ll leave you alone for a minute.” Quietly, he opened the door and took everything of Maynard’s outside.

  The pump was downstairs and it didn’t take long to get water. In his absence, Truvy unbuttoned the front of her dress, removed it, and then took off her undergarments. She moved quickly and efficiently, not wanting to be caught in such a state. Once she was free of her stiff corset and chemise and stockings, she fit her flannel nightgown over her head and made fast work of the pearl buttons in front.

  Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she stood there. Waiting. For Jake to come back. When he did, he had the water pitcher in his hand and was without any signs of her parakeet. Thoughtfully, he poured the water into the basin.

  “It’s ice cold.”

  “That’s all right.”

  She washed her face while Jake continued to clean up—eggshells into the waste bin, the griddle and plates set aside. Before they’d left, he’d stocked the heater with wood to warm the room on their return. It still felt cold to Truvy. Her feet sank into the bearskin rug beside the bed and she folded her arms across her breasts. Even though she wore a nightgown, she felt naked.

  “Into bed, sweetheart.” Jake’s words seared her, but he meant no untoward implication.

  “It’s all right . . . I can help you.”

  “Done.”

  And he was. The room was cleaned and tidied in no time. “You’re very handy,” was all Truvy could think to say.

  “Cleaning is only one of my many charms,” Jake teased, clearly trying to lighten the mood. It was awfully sweet of him. She appreciated it. “Now into bed.”

  There was an awkwardness, a moment of hesitation. But Truvy did eventually move and pull down the covers on the narrow bed. She felt awfully self-conscious as she slid beneath the sheets and blankets. She couldn’t bring herself to lie down. There was something about being flat on her back, in her nightie, with Jake towering over her that made her nervous. So she scooted as far as she could with the two pillows propped up behind her head. She tugged the coverlet all the way up to her chin.

  Jake’s back was toward her and he stood in front of the table. When he turned around, he handed her a glass barely full.

  “Drink this.”

  She took the glass, their fingers brushing in the transfer. It was like an electric shock of heat surging through her. “I-is it a bicarbonate?”

  “No. Brandy.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s what I got at the Blue Flame. You needed it, Tru. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman cry as hard as you did.” He pulled up the chair from the table and straddled it, backward. Arms over the chair’s back, he stacked the fists of his hands and rested his chin on them. “You scared me. I thought I’d have to get the doc. Go ahead and drink it. There’s not enough in there to get an ant drunk.”

  “Then perhaps I’ll want a second.”

  Jake’s mouth curved. “You do seem to surprise me at the oddest times.”

  Truvy brought the glass to her lips and sipped. She swallowed, silently choking back the river of flames that poured into her stomach. After throwing up from that cigar, she wouldn’t choke on this liquor for anything.

  Raising the glass to Jake, she said through watery eyes, “Delish.”

  Jake merely laughed.

  Truvy drank another small amount. Then another, until the glass was empty. There had been only a half-inch’s worth of the brandy to begin with.

  “Things’ll look better in the morning.” Jake reached for the glass. She didn’t let go.

  “Another small splash. Please.”

  Once she’d burned out her esophagus, the brandy wasn’t half bad. She could already feel a lull sweeping over her. A calmness. An ease to her joints and muscles. A languid warmth seeping through her bones, flushing across her skin.

  Leaning on the chair, Jake reached for the bottle on the table and gave the glass just a slight bit more.

  She drank it while Jake watched. The fire
in the heater snapped, a low and dull noise that was soothing, cozy.

  “Thank you for helping me with Maynard,” Truvy whispered. “I appreciate it.”

  “It’s all right.”

  She gave him a bittersweet smile, then sipped the brandy, letting herself be relaxed by its effect. Thoughts swirled in her head, much like the liquor in her glass. “I’ve been thinking,” she said after a spell of silence. “And I think you should wear your glasses in public.”

  His brows rose as he rested his chin on the flat of his hands. “I don’t think so.”

  “But I do. Because they make you look distinguished.”

  “I don’t want to look distinguished.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not the distinguished type.”

  The green of his eyes bore into hers. With his hair combed back and his hands wide and fingernails neatly trimmed, the way his collar lay next to his neck, and the firm set of his mouth, he was breathtakingly handsome. And refined-looking.

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Maybe for you.” His voice washed through the room, as smooth as the liquor warming her stomach.

  Feeling a heated flush on her cheeks, she replied, “No. I think for the many women you know.”

  “And how many women do you think I know?”

  “Scads.” Was that seductive tone coming from her? It seemed so far off, as if the throatiness belonged to somebody else.

  Jake watched her. Intensely. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe—merely looked into his eyes and wanted nothing more than to drown in the wonderful golden green of his gaze.

  She brought the glass to her mouth and drank the remainder of the brandy. Its intoxicating effect sluiced over her skin, prickling and tingling. She really hadn’t drunk enough to become inebriated. It was Jake’s presence doing it to her, Jake who made her blood slow. Made it become like thick syrup through her veins, sluggish, drowsy. Made the heat pool inside her body, converge to the place between her legs. Make her breasts feel heavy.

  Jake reached out and touched a long, loose curl that had fallen over her shoulder. He rubbed the hair between his fingers, thoughtfully, silently. Her hand rose to his, and she grabbed his fingers, squeezing softly.

  The emotional waves she’d been up and down the past few days came out in a flood tide of vulnerable honesty. “Jake . . . I don’t want to be an old maid. I know I have my girls, but they’re just girls. And they have their own lives to lead and they’re going about it quite splendidly. With no help from me.”

  Her movements were fragile as she lifted her hand to the opening of his heavy winter shirt. The blue-gray plaid material was warm and rough. With uncertainty, she felt one of the gray buttons near his throat; its round texture was smooth and hard. He didn’t move. But he sucked in his breath, deeply and steadily.

  “So where does that leave my life five or ten years from now?” She mused aloud, rambling on in the hazy warmth of the room. “I’ll have taught young ladies who’ve moved on to wifehood and motherhood. And there I will sit in my room at St.Francis.With Miss Pond—a very dear but unmarried woman who doesn’t even have a cat. Maynard was my ray of hope. At least I would have him to keep me company. And now I have nothing.” Surprise closed her eyes;she couldn’t believe she just confessed such a private fear of loneliness.Flickering her eyelids open, she clunked the bottom of her empty glass on the bedside table. “Don’t listen to me.”

  Jake smiled. “You’re drunk.”

  “I’m fractured.” With her right hand, she still touched the short bridge of thread that kept his shirt button in place. “That’s what college students call it. When I went to Gillette’s, it seemed like everybody got ‘fractured’ but me.”

  A muscle worked at the back of Jake’s jaw. Short bristly beard from one day’s growth darkened his chin and throat. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to be like everybody.”

  “Sometimes . . . I don’t want to be a teacher. I want . . .”

  Unabashedly, her hand slid up his chest. Her eyes never left his. He sat still as she touched the skin at the base of his throat, taut and hot and sleek, his pulse visibly thumping in the hollow. She’d never figured that a man could be so tempting.

  “Tru . . .” He spoke her name in a ragged whisper. “I should leave.”

  “No . . .”

  He caught her slender wrist within his strong fingers, his gaze melding into hers. “Then if I stay, I’m staying all night.”

  “Yes . . .”

  She realized she’d made the decision days ago. Because she would never marry, she wanted to know what it would be like to be with a man. To know what The Science of Life meant by: Our very soul pervades every element of our bodies, and in every nerve it thrills with pleasure or grows mad with pain.

  Jake was the only one who made her want to find out. She could never give herself to anyone else. Only him.

  “Do you know exactly what you’re saying?” His deep voice clung to control by a thin thread.

  “I know exactly what I’m saying. And wanting.” She dared ask, fearing that perhaps he didn’t feel the same way, “Do you want to?”

  “I’ve wanted to since Christmas Day, but you aren’t the kind of woman a man has a casual encounter with.”

  The admission of Christmas Day astonished, and reassured, her. “My wits are fully about me. I’m not innocent about human anatomy and what happens.”

  Slowly, he let her hand go. She left the weave of his shirt and fingered the area of exposed hair on his chest. She observed, “You’re not wearing an undershirt.”

  “Don’t need one,” he replied huskily, “with you. You keep me warm, Truvy.”

  “That time I came to the gym to give you the book. You stood there in a shirt that was torn and its sleeves missing. I saw only parts of your arms and chest. I’d like to see everything.” She swallowed. “Please.”

  In a sensual whisper, he commanded, “Then unbutton my shirt.”

  Slowly, she moved her hands over the fabric. One by one, she fingered each button free of its tiny slit. Her knuckles grazed his burning hot skin and he jerked with what she knew was “mad pain”—something good. The notion that she could do that to him sent excitement through her. Once the last button was undone, she parted the shirt off his broad shoulders. Shrugging free of the sleeves, he let the plaid cloth fall to the floor.

  Truvy leaned back in the bed, wordlessly staring but unable to fully see every contour of his upper body. The spindles of the chair blocked a full view of him. “Sit the other way.”

  He stood, pulled the chair away, but didn’t sit back on it. Instead, he remained standing. In front of her. As if he liked her watching, studying.

  “You do that well—stand still,” she observed.

  “I used to pose in the nude.”

  “Indeed?”

  “For artists. In New York.”

  “Is your likeness hanging anywhere in a gallery?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Jake’s chest was expansive and perfectly sculpted, like a marble statue, an Adonis. She’d always thought him chiseled when he was fully clothed; to see him like this made her imaginings pale.

  His skin was in a shade of golden tones; the dark brown whorl of hair on his chest appealed to her. It tapered, a faint line of hair disappearing into his trouser waistband. Behind the fly placket, the carrier of his . . . pabulum—no, his penis—was defined in a thick ridge.

  The book’s poetic description in reference to man’s contribution to “life” meant nothing. It said nothing. It was flowery prose written for a Victorian need for tact in the treatment of delicate subjects. Pabulum of life was silly, ridiculous. Say the correct anatomical name. Even in your mind.

  Penis.

  But even thinking the word made saliva grow thick against her tongue. A man’s appendage was something she couldn’t fully envision. A fair idea was nothing in comparison to reality.

  Jake moved forward so that his
thighs bumped the side of the bed. She had the urge to stand up, to meet him, but she couldn’t quite move. It was difficult to think. Gingerly, she lifted her hands and slid them over his bare torso. Nothing had prepared her for the pleasure of touching him like this. She’d always felt wonderful when he kissed her. But this was giving to him, and she knew he liked it.

  He dragged in his breath once more; this time, his hands captured her face and brought her lips to his for a kiss. She rose to her knees and pressed her body firmly against his. Her nipples came to hard and aching points the instant his mouth covered hers in a fusion of heat. Between them, her hands were pressed flat. She managed to move them lower. And lower yet, over his abdomen, feeling the washboard definition of muscle that covered his ribs.

  She was jolted by the moist warmth of his tongue. She lifted herself up into his full embrace, kissing him, fighting the urge to rub her breasts next to him, needing to feel friction across their tips. He deepened the kiss, stroking her, his hands traveling across her back and pushing her into his groin. She wrapped her arms around him, tracing the bones of his spine, daring to move lower and lower until her palms lay on his buttocks . . . cupping.

  Beneath her nightgown, her skin tingled. His tongue traced her lips as she wove her fingers into the silky tangle of his hair. She’d always loved his hair, so thick and satiny. The hair covering the hard muscles of his chest abraded her nipples, which strained against the flannel of her nightgown. In one quick tug, Jake had the fabric bunched in his hands and she was free of the gown.

  She knelt there, on the bed, before him . . . completely naked.

  The room’s air suddenly felt degrees colder.